Muzungu in Kampala

I am here in Kampala, and have now spent three nights here. I can't quite say that I am settling in although I have gotten a Ugandan telephone number (It's 0775170211). I don't really know how to describe my experience here. Everything just completely contradicts itself.

My flight: Let's just say I wasn't sure if I was taking a flight to Africa or to a Southern Baptist bible study conference in South Carolina. A large majority of the passengers were white, wearing baseball caps embroidered with "Jesus", or the name of their church. They had a great confidence of someone embarking on a noble quest of some kind. They completely intrigued me. These were just normal Americans wearing embroidered fleeces and khakis; Soccer moms and Nascar dads...going to Uganda to teach the locals about God. And they'd been to Africa before, and they weren't nervous in the slightest.

Me, I was still scared. I just watched them. Watched them talking to a Ugandan man who'd been working for the Lutheran church and was returning. He was asked repeatedly what church was "supporting" his church in Uganda.

I sat next to an interesting Ugandan man who was working on his PhD in Amsterdam in Psychiatry, and we talked about mental health care in Uganda, and health care policy. He knew far more about the health care system in the United States than most Americans. He and his wife and their child were all in Amsterdam - she was getting a degree in Applied Physics.

This was my first exposure to how educated people are in Uganda. They really are more educated than most people I meet at a bar in Sacramento.

I was greeted at the airport by Johnson and his younger brother Michael (also called Agaba) - and knew instantly - as in across the crowd instantly, that these were nice people that I would connect with.

They had a car and drove me from Entebbe to their apartment in Kampala. It was dark so I couldn't see much, as we got close to Kampala I got my first of the Africa that you see in the movies. The side of the highway was lined with tiny shops built out of scrap wood and sheet metal or shipping containers. It was very dark except for single florescent lights hanging in the shops or small kerosene fires outside of some of them with small groups of people sitting around them, presumably cooking something to eat. African music blared, horns honked, cars swerved to avoid bicycles, or pass slower moving minibuses unsafely.

It was late, like 10 pm, and there was a steady stream of people out. Not just out, but doing things like getting their hair cut. Raw mean hung from one stall, eggs were sold out of another, packaged consumer goods and clothes lined another, and women (and some men) were walking beside us carrying enormous loads on their heads. People stared at me as we passed, and I felt like Alice in Africa.

Once we arrived to their house, I was amazed. Their apartment looked pretty much like that of a couple of bachelors that I know. White walls, simple nice furniture. A TV and DVD player at the center of the room. My room housed a nice computer, the twin bed was a very simple thin but comfortable mattress on a frame. Other than the house having no internet, landline or hot water, it was virtually indistinguishable from an American bachelor pad.

The kitchen was the exception. They used a tiny refrigerator, and a kerosene stove. Water was boiled from an electric kettle.

I use the past tense because I am not staying here at this point. Now I am home with Clara. Michael and Bob's apartment (they are brothers sharing the place while Johnson stays there occasionally), was a really good way to ease into urban African life. With them I had things like a cold shower, and flushing toilet, mosquito free house, etc. The water turned off a couple of times as did the electricity - a way of rationing I am told.

At Clara's we pour water into the toilet to make it flush, and bathe out of a large bucket. At the same time there is a TV and DVD player, refrigerator, and they have a live in housekeeper who takes one of the three bedrooms. Clara owns a DVD rental shop - which is about 10 ft by 10 ft, and stacked with DVD's and VHS tapes.

She's a beautiful woman, and strong mother and speaks great English. She has graduated from college, and her husband is in Japan getting a Masters in Agriculture and Peace and Conflict studies.

Her daughters Millicent and Maris are gorgeous girls, 7 and 4 respectively. They speak excellent English and boy can those little girls dance. I brought them toys including glitter pens which they loved. They immediately began drawing pictures and climbing on me and playing.

Clara cooked am amazing meal to greet me - Matooke (mashed bananas), sweet potato, beans in a delicious sauce, green beans and a beef stew. Oh my goodness, it was a delicious carb feast that I ate greedily - which is the polite way to eat here. Take small portions and the cook is insulted.

The idea that is sinking in powerfully is how relative poverty really is. To Johnson and Bob I was rich, to Clara they are rich, Clara is rich to her neighbors and to Inid the live in housekeeper, and Inid is rich to the people in the village.

Already I have seen poverty like I have never before witnessed. To get to Clara's we pass through unbelievable slums. I mean houses scraped together from scavenged boards and sheet metal, dirt floors, holes for windows. The children see me and they all start yelling Muzungu Muzungu!!!! I am living in a neighborhood such as this. I have to remind myself to stay connected instead of simply observant.

I still haven't even come to the village yet.....